


And It Follows

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Sexuality Series [5]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Crossdressing, Fix-It, Gender Issues, Genderfluid Character, Get Together, M/M, part of my sexuality series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil's known for a long time that he's different. Lying in the desert, next to his bleeding best friend, he promises himself no more hiding parts of himself from the world. This is part of my sexuality series and focuses on genderfluid Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It Follows

**Author's Note:**

> Another in my ongoing occasional series exploring sexualities. Genderfluid, by the very virtue of its name, is impossible to pin down. This is just one attempt to wrestle with gender that is unfixed. I'm not, by any means, suggesting this is everyone's experience. Most of what I try to convey here, I learned from a friend who was in a relationship with a genderfluid person for awhile. As always, comments and responses are gladly taken!

_ and it follows that I am, because you are: _

_ it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we: _

_ and, because of love, you will, I will, _

_ We will, come to be.  _

  
_ Pablo Neruda _

 

Phil was nine-years-old when he wore his first pair of girl’s underwear. Plain white with a small blue cotton flower on the waistband, the garment belonged to his cousin Darla who was staying over the holidays. Somehow one of hers got mixed in with Phil’s and wound up in his drawer. In the rush to get in the car, he shoved them on and didn’t think about it. Halfway through the day at Six Flags, he noticed the way the elastic pulled against his skin and the soft feel of the smooth cotton.

 

Later, when they dragged home super late and his mom helped him take off his khaki shorts and Captain America shirt, she asked him, “What are these?”

 

“Underpants,” Phil murmured, already half asleep.

 

“Where did you get them?” Her voice was pitched higher than usual; Phil cracked open one eye. She had that face, the one where she pinched her brows together and winced.

 

“My drawer.” He didn’t understand why she was upset; white underwear was white underwear.

 

“Ah.” She calmed and ran a hand along his cheek. “Just a simple mix up.”

 

Crisis averted, although he didn’t know why, Phil closed his eyes and dreamed of cotton candy and rollercoasters that turned upside down.

 

* * *

 

 

“Come on, I look great! We’ll kick ass.” Tommy punched Phil in the shoulder. A defensive lineman with broad shoulders, Tommy grinned as he shimmied his chest and pursed his bright red lips. “Barb’s a great Robert Palmer; that trophy’s ours.”

 

“My dad’s out there.” Phil was more than just plain worried about the reaction he was going to get. “And I’m wearing pantyhose.”

 

“Exactly!” Roger almost fell, the spindly heel of his red pump unsteady beneath his weight. “Coach’ll understand; it’s a time honored tradition to make idiots out of ourselves at the talent contest.”

 

Phil pulled on the short hem of the skirt, the elastic of the black underpants cutting into the curve of his ass. The bra should feel strange, a tight band around his chest, but the problem was that it felt … good. Right. Perfect. He liked the scrape of the strap across his shoulder, the curves of fake breasts. The fake hair of the blonde wig, curling over his shoulders.

 

The music started and they lined up. Mary Ann Pence nudged him. “You look good, Phil; it’ll be fine.”

 

A roar went up from the crowded risers, the gym filled to bursting with students, teachers, and parents. Phil didn’t let his eyes slide to the end of the wooden seats where he knew his father would be watching; instead, he focused on the other players decked out in their black dresses and fell in line as they began to dance, gyrating to the strains of “Addicted to Love.” Phil pouted, making his red painted lips into a bow, and saw his father’s grin, the happiness reflected there seeing his son as part of a family tradition. If Phil swiveled his hips more, enjoyed the taste of his lipstick, well, his father never need know.

 

* * *

 

 

Thing about being ROTC, Phil barely had a moment to himself. Between studying for his senior seminar, writing his thesis on the Howling Commandos, training, weights, and weekend drill, he managed a few hours of sleep but a social life? That was out of the question. Not that he could ask Roger Morton to hang out; being gay didn’t exactly fit with his squad leadership position. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Marcus badgering him to occasionally get out of the apartment, Phil’s pale skin would never see sunlight.

 

So a whole weekend alone seemed like a gift from heaven; Phil planned to do nothing but write and read and sleep. Maybe order chow mein from How Lee’s and eat the whole carton. Play his music and dance in his underwear if he wanted to. But the joy of having the place to himself only lasted until Saturday afternoon; the words of the Peggy Carter biography were blurring together and Phil had hit a writer’s block the size of Plymouth Rock.

 

He took a load out of the tiny stackable washer and dryer, sighing as he separated the underwear.  At first when they’d moved in the two bedroom townhouse, Phil had felt weird about touching Melinda’s things, but nearly two years later, Phil was just happy to have clean clothes on a regular basis. Besides, Mel was pretty basic when it came to … Phil’s fingers touched spmething silky and he pulled out a pair of black panties and a matching camisole.

 

The urge hit to feel the elastic against his skin, the scratch of the lace, the cool nylon. He laid them out on the bed, smoothed them flat and went on with folding his briefs. It had been over three years since he’d given in; he’d bought some women’s hipsters in plain white and kept them in a shoebox in his closet. But these were completely different; so very feminine and sexy; he’d never worn anything like them.

 

For a good fifteen minutes, he made a list of pros and cons, first of which was Melinda’s wrath if she ever found out. In the end, it was the knowledge he could have them washed and back in her room before she got home that decided it. Closing the door to the room he shared with Marcus, he stripped out of his jeans and shirt; gently he stepped into the panties, dragging them up his legs, carefully expanding the elastic over his thighs. Good thing he was slim, preferring running and martial arts to get in shape. They were tight around his waist, pulling across his hips, but they weren’t in danger of splitting at the seams. The camisole had a bra clasp in the back,  two flaps of see-thru lace hanging over his stomach; no way it would span his chest so Phil jury rigged an extension with paper clips and a rubber band.

 

In the bathroom mirror, Phil gazed at his reflection. Lace triangles covered his nipples, chest hair curling around the edges. The swish of the camisole’s hem brushed against his belly; the bottoms tickled his inner thighs. His cock was tucked up tight against his skin, cradled by the material. He ran his hands over the smoothness, roughened callouses catching on the delicate fabric.Far from awkward, he was aroused at the sight; a slight flush crept up his neck as his cock began to fill. Palms grazing along his thighs, he tangled his fingers in hair, thinking of smooth skin and the crawl of pantyhose, the press of patent leather around his toes. Heels … slim stilettos that made his calves flex and contract. Hair that brushed his shoulders, curled and pinned. Earrings … he guessed they still made the ones that weren’t pierced, but he wasn’t sure. A simple black dress, nothing fancy, no sequins, just a good drape of crepe.

 

And a date. Spiky short hair, biceps to spare, a quirky sense of humor. Blue eyes. Phil was partial to blue eyes. They’d dance after dinner until their feet hurt  then go back to the hotel room where he’d peel off his date’s clothes, drop to his knees and give him the blow job of a life. With a moan, Phil rubbed his own cock, the pulsing of his heartbeat under his palm. He came back to himself and realized he was already leaking on Melinda’s underwear. With a quick jerk, he pulled them down, kicking them away; the top was harder, thin wire bending under his fingers, but he got it off then turned on the shower, jumping in as soon as it was warm. Some soap and soon he was groaning out a climax under the spray.

 

That night, he dreamed of dancing, skirt swirling, heels clicking on the parquet floor. Strong arms twirling him, blue eyes sparkling, a sweet gentle kiss. In the mirror, she smiled at Phil, so confident, so beautiful. “You are, you know,” she confirmed. “Gorgeous as hell.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Damn it, Cheese, I told you get the hell out of here!” Marcus hissed under his breath. “One of us needs to tell the General.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Phil told his friend. “Now shut the hell up and let me think.”

 

Outside, the buildings were burning, Taliban raiders rounding up the local men for conversion or execution. The women huddled in a corner of the square, their children held tight to their skirts. The squad had been on a simple supply deliver when the attack came; three men died in seconds and Marcus lost an eye. Phil had taken two bullets but he’d dragged his friend behind the relative safety of a stone wall.

 

There was no way out, not with both of them wounded. Marcus was right; the leader of this group was on the most wanted list. The unit had to know. But he’d be damned if he was going to tuck tail and run. Not when his best friend’s life was at stake.

 

One of the village men broke and ran; he was gunned down in seconds, his blood spilling on the dry ground. As Phil watched through a chink in the wall, he saw one of the women scream and lunge towards the dead man; behind her, another shifted, her eyes flickering towards a small building. Phil followed her gaze, saw the edge of boxes stacked inside, and knew what it was. With so many different sects and warlords, weapons caches were everywhere; if he measured it right, blowing the stash would take out three of the four trucks.

 

“Okay, I’ve got a plan. It’s a stupid one, but there’s definitely a 30% chance we survive,” Phil told Marcus. Taking out a grenade, Phil judged the distance, pulled the pin, and threw it. The second he jumped up, the Taliban soldiers saw him. Bullets rattled his way; he felt the first one sear through his arm as he watched the grenade curve through the air and dropped through the open window. The second shot ripped into his side, pain lancing into his hip; he crumpled to the ground just as the explosion rocked the ground. The wall fell on top of them both, hiding them from view, protecting them.

 

Phil swam in and out of consciousness; sometimes he heard Marcus talking to him, other times he saw her leaning over him, looked down to a bleeding and bruised boody. He was pretty sure he was dying, and all he could think about was what he hadn’t done, how he’d never fully and freely gave that side of himself a voice. Never admitted that he liked feeling feminine on some days, wanted to wear suits on the others. Such a simple thing, letting the boundaries go and crossing over them as he willed. He might never get the chance

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Phil saw Clint Barton, he was shivering, t-shirt and dirty jeans soaked to the skin, handcuffs around his wrists. Nick had bailed him out of jail where he’d spent the night after a bar brawl spilled over into the rainy back alley. Barton had been at SHIELD for less than six months and was already racking up an impressive list of reprimands in his personnel file. He was angry, anyone could see that. But Phil could see the hurt beneath the surface, the self-doubt covered by swagger and bravado.

 

“Well, Trainee Barton,” he said as he entered the small room. “Let’s get you warmed up before you catch a cold, if you haven’t already.” Tossing a set of black sweats, thick socks and clean underwear Barton’s way, Phil unlocked the cuffs. “Grab a hot shower, and I’ll get some food. You like the cafeteria’s mac & cheese? I think it’s bacon day.”

 

Barton rubbed his wrists as he stared at Phil; those blue-grey eyes catalogued every detail from the yellow pocket square to the simple silver collar pin. No wonder he was nicknamed Hawkeye; it wasn’t just his perfect aim. “It’s buffalo chicken mac on Wednesdays. Tell Marlene it’s for me and she’ll add some garlic knots.”

 

“Marlene likes you. That says a lot,” Phil said with a chuckle. The woman was one of the best judges of character Phil knew. There must be a lot more to Barton than met the eye. “Pie or cake?”

 

“Dude. Pie.” Barton picked up the clothes. His arms were wiry, biceps and triceps easily identifiable; hIs past still hung on his thin frame. “Is there anything else?”

 

“Good answer,” Phil told him. He’d make sure to get an extra large slice.

 

* * *

 

 

“Agent Coulson?” The tech hesitated in the conference room doorway.  “Ma’am?”

 

She turned, her heels clicking as she stepped over to get the report. “Thank you, Johnson.” Flipping through the pages, she got to the important statistics and spent a moment reading them. “Okay, this changes things. We’re going to need a sniper who can make a shot from the top of the church steeple. Seaton, go get Barton; Martin, we’re going to need a distraction.”

 

The planning went on, ideas tossed back and forth; then Barton entered and came to a dead stop just inside the doorway. The room went silent as Clint surveyed Phyl from the tip of her navy blue peep-toe mary janes to the one curl that had slipped from her perfect chignon. Blue Armani mid-rise trousers matched the dots on her silk shirt; the matching one button blazer had white piping on the pockets and along the collar.

 

“Ah, the infamous Phyllis Coulson. I was beginning to think you didn’t exist.” Barton lounged back, shoulders flat on the institutional white wall, hips curved out and arms crossed over his chest.  The grin on his face was full of his usual sass. “Phil’s twin sister who’s a bigger badass than he is. Sounded like an urban legend, to be honest.”

 

The hairs on the nap of Phyl’s neck stirred under Barton’s gaze. From the moment Marcus turned Nick Fury had recruited him for SHIELD, Phyl had insisted that she wouldn’t hide who she was; Nick had shrugged and said, “Fuck ‘em if they don’t like it” and that was that. How the story got started that Phyllis was Philip’s twin sister no one seemed to know, but Phyl didn’t go out of her way to correct it. Most people saw what they wanted to see, explaining a deep voice as a byproduct of smoking. Plus, the fluidity of her gender had come in handy more than once; in Bahrain, she’d arrived as Phil and left as Phyllis, walking right by the men with guns who were searching the airport.

 

“If you’re quite finished, Agent, we have a situation I need your expertise with.” Phyl turned to the map on the screen behind her. “Given the windows in the suite and the weather forecast, what is this the best location for the sniper?”

 

Clint straightened, dropping into his professional demeanor; the third thing Phyl had learned about the archer was that he was very intelligent even if he hid it well. Ask him for his opinion and Barton would almost always come up with the best answer to the problem.  “Angle is too low,” he said, studying the layout. “I’d take the shot from here.” Clint tapped a bank building. “See the small window on this side? That’ll be the shower; this building is built on the same blueprint as most on the block, and that’s the bathroom.”

 

Stepping back, Phyl looked at Clint’s proposed spot; only three people in the world could make that shot, but it so happened Barton was one of them. “Okay. Tell me more. How would you do it?”

 

The Albereque op went well; Clint’s suggestions made the whole thing run much smoother and they even had time to grab eat some excellent Tex Mex while they were there. When they were back on base, a small package appeared on Phyl’s desk; inside was a pin made of blue and silver beads, the kind they sold in the marketplace near the restaurant. In Barton’s scrawl was written “Goes with the Armani.”  She meant to return it, but shipped out the next day for Seville, Spain and turned right around and worked with Barton again in Cape Town. From that mission, Barton left Phil a rock with flecks of gold on his desk with the short note, “You’re a rock, Coulson.”

 

It became a thing, the little trinkets, some pretty, some funny, all of them mementos of missions. Didn’t matter whether it was Phyllis or Philip, Barton spoke highly of Agent Coulson to everyone who’d listen.

 

* * *

 

 

The smell hit his nose first then the white styrofoam container slid in front of him.

 

“Even the great Phil Coulson has to eat,” Barton told him, flipping open the lid. “One wild mushroom and bourbon burger from Sauce Bar. Best burger in all five boroughs. Trust me.”

 

The kaiser bun was toasted, arugula spilling out the sides, swiss cheese oozing down. A pile of fresh homemade chips and pickle spear filled out the rest of the tray. “What do you want?” Phil asked, eyeing Barton’s oh-so-innocent face.

 

“Can’t a guy look out for his friend without having his motive questioned?” Clint sat down in the chair opposite the desk and took a second styrofoam container out of the plastic bag. “Besides, I had a craving for a five alarm; getting you something was an excuse to give in.”

 

“I can withstand anything except temptation,” Phil quoted, wrapping his hands around the burger and picking it up. A delicious smelling bourbon glaze seeped onto his fingers; the first bite made a him moan. “And this is sin between a bun.”

 

“If you like that one, you should try the salisbury. Comes in a burger or bunless in a cast iron skillet.” Barton had hot sauce in the corner of his lips; his tongue licked the red drops and Phil’s stomach swooped with an unexpected tingle. Oh, Phil knew that sensation all too well.

 

“As in salisbury steak? That does sound good.” Phil carefully sat his burger down to try the chips. Lusting after a co-worker had never ended well, and he’d studiously avoided dating anyone at SHIELD. Explaining Phyllis could destroy their working relationship. No, he’d just have to ignore it.

 

“We should go, next week. There’s that stupid training Tuesday afternoon; we can head out afterwards and catch burgers & brews happy hours. They have a serious list of craft beers to choose from.” Clint tossed it out so casually; Phil was envious of the smooth invitation but a date was far too complicated to even think about. “Jasper and Alan are coming; Jasper eats there once a week.”

 

Phil let out a silent sigh; okay, not a date, a ‘hey let’s hang out’ declaration. “That sounds good. I need to get out of this office more. Sometimes I forget if it’s even daylight or not.”

 

“Good, I’ll hold you too it. Drag you along if I have to.” Clint winked and kicked his feet up on the edge of Phil’s desk. “So, what do you think about Jasper’s crush on Melinda? Any chance of that working out?”

 

* * *

 

 

The goddamn mission went to hell from the second they’d stepped foot on this stupid ship. Tracking someone on a big cruise liner might seem like an easy gig, but there were only so many ways to keep strolling past their cabin and far too easy for them to suddenly return while you were searching the small space. That’s how Phyllis came to be shoved into a tiny box of a shower, face-to-face with Clint Barton of all people, pressed together hip to shoulder behind an opaque piece of plastic that served as a door.

 

For two years, Phyl had managed to avoid her growing attraction to Clint by reminding herself that it would never work. Now, here she was, trying desperately to keep her breathing even and controlled as Clint’s breaths heated the side of her neck where he’d turned his head. She was looking at the wall, chin almost resting on Clint’s shoulder; he had both hands on the opposite wall on either side of their heads, trying to leverage some tiny amount of space between them. Her gun was imprinting on his ribs and one of her arms hung awkwardly at her side, the only other option to loop her fingers in Barton’s swim trunk’s waistband.

 

“Jesus, Monty, I told you to put on sunscreen before we went to lunch at least four times,” Andy Heisner, a biochemist and A.I.M. operative was bitching at his lover. “You know you burn if the sun so much as sees a patch of uncovered skin.”

 

She could feel Clint trying to suck his stomach in; the gun was surely going to leave a bruise if he didn’t. As he shifted minutely, his lips brushed along the curve of Phyllis’s neck and she shivered, biting her lip to keep any sound from escaping, hoping Clint wouldn’t notice. He did, of course, because he was Clint Barton; freezing, Clint tilted his head and looked at her, his blue-grey eyes questioning. Slowly, deliberately, he did it again, more pressure this time, enough for Phyl to feel the moisture of his mouth. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but respond with the slightest intake of breath and curling of her fingers.

 

“Fuck.” The word was not even a murmur, more like an exhale right into Phyl’s ear. This time when Clint shifted, he slipped a knee between her legs and, suddenly, his half-hard cock was resting on her thigh, twitching as his tongue traced the bottom of her earlobe.

 

As the marks continued arguing in the cabin, Phyl began to slowly come undone with each touch. The tip of Clint’s tongue ran along her neck muscle, his hand curling around her next, tilting her head to expose more skin. His nose nuzzled behind her ear and she realized she was trembling, her cock starting to rouse beneath her bike short binder. She shouldn’t, she thought, then Clint’s lips closed on the spot where her collarbone curved sucking in the skin gently, and she couldn’t think of a reason not to. Relaxing her muscles, letting her body sag into his, she lifted her leg and rubbed along Clint’s cock; there wasn’t room for more than a tiny motion, but it was enough to make his hips tuck under and his breath to huff silently against her neck.

 

He caught her hand with his, bringing it up to his waist, sliding it under his t-shirt. Skin spread beneath her fingers, muscles bunching at the waist; she squeezed her nails into him, holding on as his mouth ghosted along her jaw and kissed that spot behind her ear. With her other hand, she caught his chin and turned his head; their noses mashed together, too close to maneuver, but her lips found his and she fell into the taste of Clint Barton. The strawberry concoction he’d been drinking on deck, a hint of mint, the slightest flavor of herbs from a breakfast omelette. God, but she’d wondered for too long about how Barton’s body would feel, how his tongue would dart in and sweep around her mouth, how he’d grip her tight and hold her still as he kissed her. This was so much better than anything she could have imagined.

 

“Look, go on,” Monty said. “Don’t miss the first course. They’re having that watermelon soup you like. I’m going to hit the head and I’ll be right there. Promise.”

 

Andrew sighed. “Okay, but don’t get distracted. We can’t afford to be off our guard. I know SHIELD is out there looking for us.”

 

They froze as the door shut to the tiny bathroom. There was an opening at the top of the shower divider; if Monty looked at just the right angle he could see a hand or a shadow. Lips parted and they drew themselves as far into the back corner as they could.

 

“Damnit,” Monty muttered, pacing the four steps back and forth he could take in the enclosed space. “Hey, yeah, it’s me. I know, but the jammer’s a piece of shit and I can’t text. Look, I’ll have it tonight. Meet me on the Lido deck, the elevators by the Versailles pool; Andy likes to soak after dinner; say 7:30.” He paused and Phyl could hear a tinny distant voice reply. “Once I do this, we’re done, okay? I’m met my obligations to you.”

 

The phone clattered as he dropped it. For a few seconds there was only the sound of his broken breathing then he muttered, “What the hell have you gotten yourself into Monty?”

 

A long moment passed after he left, the awkwardness of the situation and the closeness of Clint making it difficult for Phyl to think. She knew what she should do -- get on with the goals of their mission and search the cabin -- but damned if she had the will to do it.

 

“Barton … Clint …” She tried to put words together but nothing came out other hand his name.

 

“Don’t.” Clint dropped a light kiss on her neck. “I’ve been trying to get you to notice me for forever. Don’t tell me we can’t or shouldn’t or any of that other shit.”

 

“You don’t understand” She needed to get out of here, needed room to breath. Opening the door, she pushed them both out.

 

“Oh my God.” Clint blocked her way out of the bathroom. “You think … hell, I’ve known from the first time I saw you. Never have understood why people believe you’re two different people.”

 

“Wait.” Phyl put her hand on Clint’s shoulder. “What?”

 

“Let’s be clear here. I want **_you_ ** . I don’t give a damn what you wear or what equipment you’re packing.” He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. “Although if you happen to have a garter belt and stockings, well, I have this little fantasy about getting fucked over your desk.”

 

“Jesus, Barton. You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?” she asked, a smile crawling across her face.

 

“I certainly hope so,” he shot back.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint lay spread out beneath him, golden skin covered in a sheen of sweat, ass clenching tight around Phil’s cock each time he pulled out and thrust back in. Arms wrapped around Clint’s thighs, knees hiked over his shoulders, Phil groaned as he felt the tension coil to a breaking point, his orgasm coming fast and hard. A few strokes of his hand and Clint was coming with a breathy moan.

 

“Holy shit, Phil,” Clint said after they’d both had a few moments to breathe and Phil had collapsed beside him. “You should have told me dancing made you horny as hell; we’d have gone on our first date.”

 

“Still can’t believe you found a swing club.” What a night it had been; the silky dress, gorgeous heels, excellent martinis, and non-stop big band music. Phyl’s dream come true; Clint had made a perfect evening. Well, Clint with some help from Pepper.

 

“How do you feel about disco?” Clint rolled to his side and slipped his arm around Phil’s waist. “Purple silk shirt, white suit …”

 

“Sequins. I’ve been wanting a sequined dress.” He stroked a hand through Clint’s sweaty hair. “But first I need a nap and then I’m going to give you the blow job of your life.”

 

Sunlight seeped around the edge of the blinds before Phyl woke, the day half gone. Stumbling into the bathroom, she rubbed a hand over her face and stared blearily in the mirror. On a metal strip on the wall, three magnets clung -- one red, one navy blue and one purple. The system had been Clint’s idea and, as always, it turned out to be the perfect answer. Taking the red magnet, she moved it to the corner of the mirror before she started the shower and stepped in. She ached in strange places, last night’s exertions on the dance floor and in bed reminding her she wasn’t getting younger. The thought of growing old sent a spike of worry; Clint was so handsome, younger than her.

 

“Good morning, beautiful.” Clint slipped in behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “How’s my girl? Up for more dancing?”

 

She chuckled and stepped more fully into the spray, taking Clint with her. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” she replied. “My feet and calves need a day off.”

 

“Oh, good. My left knee is bitching at me big time.” Clint sighed as he took the soap from her hands and lathered up. “I was worried I couldn’t keep up. A quiet day puttering around the house, dinner on the couch, maybe catch  _ The Martian  _ on demand  is more my speed today.”  

 

“Now that sounds perfect.” She relaxed and let her anxiety go. “But first …” Wiggling her ass against Clint’s already semi-hard cock, she caught one of his hands and brought it to her own.

 

“Ah, darlin’, you read my mind,” Clint said, kissing her neck.

 

* * *

 

 

“Wait, her first name is Agent …” Tony stopped, stared at Pepper, looked over at Clint leaning against a banister. “Philip and Phyllis. Phil. Oh, shit.” He spun around on his heel as if looking for an answer in the room. “You’re … fuck me. Seriously?”

 

“Phyl, come in.” Pepper walked over to her and kissed her cheek. “Did you get the link I sent you? I’ve gotten us front row seats at Erin Barr’s fashion show; I know you love her coats.”

 

“I did and I can’t wait. Maria wants to see Sarah Law’s new handbags.” Phyllis returned Pepper’s hug then turned to Tony. “Mr. Stark, I have some data I need you to look at.” She passed a tablet to Pepper who handed it to Tony.

 

“Is this about the Avengers Initiative? Of which I know nothing about, of course,” Pepper asked.

 

“Nobody’s going to say anything about Coulson being genderfluid?” Tony interrupted. “Because that’s the news of the hour.”

 

“Tony, I think this is serious. Phyllis looks upset,” Pepper confided in a whisper.

 

“Upset? I’m the one upset! Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Tony glared at Phyllis. “Think of all the girl’s nights out I’ve been missing! Did you give her my tailor’s name? Because that man is amazing at making things fit over binders. And that place in Paris with the bras? Pep, you’ve been holding out on me!”

 

Phyl glanced over her shoulder; Clint merely raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Mr. Stark, if you’ll look at the files, I promise you can take me shopping later. I’ll even let you try on my Ferragamos since we’re the same size. But work first.”

 

“Oh, babe, you ain’t seen nothing until you see my closet.” Tony flipped open the tablet. “Mark off a whole weekend and I’ll book the plane. But no Bird Boy; invitation’s for just us girls.”

 

With a sigh, Phyllis agreed. “A whole weekend. Now, as to the Avengers Initiative …”

**Author's Note:**

> The magnet thing comes directly from my friend. The red was for female, navy blue for man, and purple for neither/inbetween (because pink and blue were too loaded with cultural identity). Her lover put one up in the morning and then she knew what pronouns to use. Wasn't a perfect system, but it did help. 
> 
> Sauce Bar & Burgers is in Canonsburg, PA and DAYUM that mushroom/bourbon burger is da' bomb.


End file.
